


from the dining table

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: A teeny bit of angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, kissing in the bath, there's a reference to the great outer space bake off, these two will kill me i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: Missy invites Bill to dinner, and Bill can't help but feel there's an ulterior motive. It's so domestic it's alarming. [a lot of things are revealed at the dining table. twelve/missy.]





	from the dining table

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a long one, but I'm weirdly very proud of it? Also I'm dedicating this to my girls over on twitter who are always so willing to read bits I'm unsure of. Really hope you enjoy and I'd love to hear your comments!
> 
> Also a word on structure: each part is named after a course on the RMS Titanic, because that's what I found on wikipedia and liked it. Most parts are Bill's POV, but the interludes are from the Doctor's. Timeline wise, this is set after the Doctor releases Missy from the vault, but world enough and time/the doctor falls hasn't happened. I guess you could call this canon divergence? Anyway, any questions, don't hesitate to ask!

**_\--course one: hors d’oeuvre_ **

It’s at about seven pm that Bill’s phone judders across her desk, waking her from the powernap she’s enjoying across the keys of her laptop. The screen reveals a picture she’s drawn herself in a shitty paint app of a penguin with its arse on fire. Well—she’s doing a degree in theoretical physics, not fine art. She’s not expected to be good at these things.

She swipes her screen, smile tugging at her lips. “Hello? Doctor?”

There’s some vague rustling on the other end of the phone. Maybe he’s butt-dialled her. He’s done that before, not long ago actually, and she’s really pretty bloody sure she wants to know _nothing_ about the noises she was hearing on that occasion. But there’s a break, and _—“Good evening, Bill. Is it evening where you are? Missy says…”_

“Yes, it’s evening,” Bill cuts in, glancing at the blinking digital clock on her bedside table. “Where are you?”

 _“Not sure. We were trying the new anti-gravity bowling alley they’ve set up on Venus, but that was a few hours ago now. Space, probably.”_ He clears his throat. _“Would you like to come for dinner?”_

Bill splutters on nothing. Checks she’s heard correctly. “Dinner?”

_“Yes, dinner. Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot humans were quite argumentative when it comes down to semantics… do you call it tea? Supper? Hors d’oeuvres?”_

“No, I call it dinner,” Bill says, forehead furrowed, “It’s just—that’s not what we usually do, is it?”

“ _What are you talking about? We eat together all the time. That reminds me, I still owe you for the chips the other day, I think I’ve got some Earth currency around here somewhere…”_ There’s more rustling. Another muffled voice. _“Yes, that’s a good idea; I always lose things down the back of the sofa.”_

“Wait—who are you talking to? Is someone else there?” Instantly, Bill gives up on that line of inquiry. It’s blatantly obvious who the other voice is. “And anyway, that’s not what I meant. We eat chips on park benches or, like, that time we went to India in the 1980s and ate all that street food and Nardole got the runs.”

_“It still troubles me that a cyborg somehow managed to get the runs. I need to look into that, if he’ll let me.”_

“Better you than me. Will you let me finish?” A discontented murmur allows her to continue. “As I was saying, the way you asked before sounded really formal. We don’t usually do formal. Is it a special occasion? Have I forgotten your birthday?” Bill narrows her eyes. “Do Time Lords have birthdays? Do I need to bring a cake? I’ll have to go down to the Asda, they do this huge chocolate—“

_“Stop, Bill. It’s not my birthday. Don’t panic.”_

Bill sighs, relieved. The thought of buying over two thousand candles is enough to give her an aneurism. “Okay, okay, so what’s the occasion, then?”

There’s a pause on the line. _“There’s no occasion. It’s just Missy has found this recipe for roast lamb that she really wants to—“_

“ _Missy_ is cooking?” Bill splutters, leaning back in her desk chair. Oh, boy, she’s really heard it all. “Your homicidal human-hating arch nemesis is cooking _me_ dinner?”

_“Not just you. Me too. And Nardole. I’ve given him some medication so we shouldn’t have a repeat of Kerala.”_

“That is—that is beside the point!” Bill gestures to thin air, “This is _Missy_ we’re talking about here! Give her a bloody slow cooker and an oblivious human and she’s already thought of a thousand ways she could kill them!”

The receiver rumbles and Bill wonders if the Doctor has dropped it, until a very different Scottish accent responds. _“Just a thousand? Bless you, it’s way more than that, not counting if I pick up the slow cooker in question and smash it against…hey, what? I was hardly going to let her believe that I only know one thousand methods of murder, was I?”_ Bill blinks, waits, as a small altercation appears to occur. _“Sorry about that, Bill, she’s just a bit…sensitive, at the moment.”_

Bill hears something smash in the background. Jesus. Even she realises that using words like _sensitive_ in relation to the self-proclaimed Queen of Evil is an awful idea.

 _“You know she’s trying to change,_ ” The Doctor says eventually. _“She’s trying to show you that she’s changing. Please. Come.”_

Bill’s still not sure if someone so inherently cruel could ever change, not completely, but the way the Doctor wants to believe it so much has her heart pounding, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. She doesn’t know a whole lot about their complicated, ancient relationship, but she knows that the Doctor is linked to Missy in a way that is impossible for any human to comprehend. Bill’s observant. She notices things. She notices how he clings onto her like a lifeline.

(She clings onto him, too. It’s obvious. It’s so fucking obvious.)

“Fine,” Bill relents, letting out a breath. Drums her fingers against the white Ikea wood of her desk. “Where and when?”

She can hear his smile through his words. _“The TARDIS, usual spot. In about an hour, your time. She insists you wear your best clothes because she’ll be wearing hers.”_ A pause. _“Thank you, Bill. Thank you.”_

-x-

**_\--course two: soups_ **

Bill’s not one hundred percent sure what _best clothes_ actually means so she decides on the black dress she wore when she first met Heather, because she’s always felt her best in that dress. She buys a bottle of mid-range white wine from the Asda and debates buying a cake out of paranoia, but decides against it. Even if Time Lords do have birthdays, doesn’t mean they’ll have cake, and she doesn’t want another excuse for Missy to laugh at her.

The TARDIS is stood majestically on a patch of grass in front of St Luke’s, the blue ghostly and ethereal in the late autumn moonlight. Bill’s heels sink in the damp soil as she treads carefully over, bangs her fist on the door. Nardole opens up merely seconds later, looking surprisingly dapper in a new suit and shiny, leather boots. He grins as they catch eyes.

“Bill! Welcome!” He steps back and allows her to walk in out the cold. Goosebumps bristle up and down her arms. She hands him the wine, because what else is she supposed to do with it? “Oh, lovely! The Doctor loves a white, especially with salmon.”

Bill idly wonders what Missy’s favourite drink is. Probably the blood of the innocent, or something like that. “Um—where is the Doctor?”

Nardole raises a hand, like he’s remembered something he’d previously forgotten. “He told me to take you to the dining room when you arrived. He should be in there. Just follow me.”

Nardole guides her through a network of complex corridors to a room deep within the TARDIS, much further than she’s ever dared to explore before: probably to assure she doesn’t escape mid-meal. The door opens into a grand, echoing hall with a ceiling higher than she’s ever seen, decorated delicately in religious renaissance art; fat cherubs and naked men with exaggerated penises, swathes of bright cloth and wispy clouds. Her jaw drops open.

“Michelangelo,” the Doctor appears beside her, gesturing towards the decadent artwork. “Missy’s idea. She’s a fan. I thought he was a bit of a show-off.”

Bill snorts. Michelangelo. Of course. “I don’t claim to know much about that area, but I’m sure no man’s dick is actually that big.”

“Like I said, show-off. In every single department.” The Doctor nods knowingly, and Bill wonders how exactly he knows that information. Not that she’s remotely surprised. “Would you like a drink?”

Bill nods vaguely. There’s a dark mahogany table in the centre of the room, too small really for its surroundings, intimate. Four chairs with burgundy velvet covers in the same wood sit squarely around it. The floor is bare stone, like that of a medieval castle, but the patch beneath the table is draped in a rug. There’s no chandelier or any modern light fittings, rather rows of tall candelabras that reach out into the room, flickering light. Wax drips and cools onto the ground. It’s all a bit goth, in Bill’s opinion, like the time her and the Doctor visited King James V at Edinburgh Castle when he’d been invaded by giant space spiders.

(The Doctor had told her they weren’t giant space spiders, they had a proper name from a proper planet, but they were giant and spidery and from space. Giant space spiders.)

A string quartet plays something she thinks is by Pachelbel, but there’s no musicians to be seen, just a melody that drifts through the atmosphere like a breeze. Each plate on the table is lined with a dozen pieces of cutlery. She shivers. “God. What’s with the medieval vibe?”

The Doctor pours her a glass of opened champagne, the bubbles rising to the rim. Foam oozes down his fingers, which he wipes on the velvet lapels of his smart jacket. He gestures in no particular direction. “It’s her aesthetic. Apparently. Are you cold?”

She accepts the champagne gratefully. The liquid warms her throat, her chest. “No, I’m fine. It’s just eerie.” She glances down at the table, notices the way it’s been set. “What is she cooking, exactly? Because this seems like an awful lot of cutlery.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve vetted the menu. She wants it to be a surprise.”

Nardole props his head round the door, then, smiling weakly. “Doctor, she’s asking for you.”

The Doctor shrugs at Bill— _what can you do—_ and gently places his glass back down by his plate, before following Nardole out the room. The invisible quartet plays on. Bill wishes she didn’t feel so damn suspicious.

-x-

**_\--course three: fish (interlude one)_ **

The kitchen is warm, much warmer than the dining room, and the Doctor knocks on the extractor fans without Missy knowing to clear some of the steam. There’s hundreds of kitchens sprawled across the TARDIS somewhere, but this is her favourite—it has a rustic stove with a real log fire and an exposed stone floor, a big off-white fridge and a vintage kettle. She’s hunched over the hob when he finds her. Her hair is knotted up under a ridiculous chef’s hat and she’s wearing an apron, like dressing up like a chef will actually make her one.

“You called?” he says, coming up from behind her, pressing his hands down on her shoulders. She’s stirring soup—it smells herby. Rosemary. She lifts a ladle.

“Taste this,” she asks, “It’s got pepper in it. I’m worried it’s too much.”

He raises an eyebrow, slurps it gently. There’s pepper, yes, and rosemary. Chicken stock. “That’s fine. I can hardly taste it.”

“Yes, but we’re catering for _humans_ here. They’re practically famous for their weak taste buds. I just don’t want a pepper overdose, of all things, to be the reason I kill one of your…friends.”

The way she says _friends_ is hesitant, unsure, but it’s a thousand times better than some of the less complimentary terms she’s called his companions in the past. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Bill’s been to the New New York Curry House and barely batted an eyelid. I think she’ll deal with it.”

Missy pouts, continues stirring. The stove hums. “On your head be it.”

Well, that’s usually the way. He puts his hand over her own on the pan handle and for a moment her body freezes beneath him, tenses, relaxes. “I can finish this off if you want to get ready.” She chuckles. He can feel it vibrate up his arm. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just—this is very domestic of us. Alarmingly so.”

“It was your idea,” he shrugs, “I’m just following through.”

She laughs again and for a moment they’re kids on Gallifrey, zealous and high on adrenaline, skipping class at the Academy. Hiding in the eves and wondering if the Professor would ever catch them and tell their parents. He thinks she taught him to kiss, the day they first skipped class. Her lips were warm and tasted like black cherries, her hair as red as the burning grass, as she was back then. Or maybe he’s made that all up—it’s hard to tell, now, after two thousand years. Sometimes memory and dreams are the same, sometimes completely different.

Maybe she remembers too. Missy pauses, biting her lip, as she unravels her hand from his. She pops the chef hat on his head, tugs it over his ears. Nods appreciatively at her handiwork. “Can you be a dear and check the lamb? In about ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but I want to do my hair.”

She’s got lots of hair, this regeneration. He kind of loves it. “Of course.”

She presses a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek, lets her hand linger round his neck. It might mean everything; it might mean nothing. “Thank you.”

As she leaves, he wonders when that invisible line that always instigated a boundary between them was breached.

-x-

**\-- _course four: entrees_**

It’s a good while before the Doctor returns and Missy has roped Nardole in as a waiter, so Bill waits in the dining room patiently, drumming her heels in the ground. The music shifts to a piano, a Beethoven suite that Bill remembers Missy playing back in the vault days. Maybe she’s sealed the musicians into the walls. Bill wouldn’t put it past her. It’s a pleasant composition, sweet, soulful, sorrowful. It makes her think of Heather and the ache she left behind.

Can you miss someone you barely knew? Yes, yes, you can, Bill decides. Because you don’t just miss the brief time you had with them, the past. You miss all the future you could have had with them too. Potential is always more painful than history.

She sips the champagne carefully. It’s dangerous to dwell. Looks up at the ceiling and concentrates on that instead. As well as the abundance of cocks, there’s quite a few decent pairs of boobs up there too. She can’t help but cringe when she realises that one of said pairs of boobs belongs to a dark-haired goddess that looks a lot like Missy.

She shudders. Perhaps Michelangelo and Missy’s relationship was a lot more… _intimate,_ than she really wants to picture. She’s never going to get that image out of her mind. Luckily, the Doctor entering the room drags her away from that certain train of thought.

“What?” the Doctor blinks, “Are you alright? You look… unsettled.”

Oh, she’s unsettled alright, but it’s probably best not to mention the reason for it. She flashes him a grin. “Just thinking. I’m fine, really. Hungry.”

The Doctor walks over to the table and gestures towards the chair opposite his, urging her to sit. “Nardole will be bringing out the first course shortly. Missy’s just getting ready. Sorry we’re terrible hosts, I haven’t done this n such a…”

His voice trails off and Bill waves a hand. A candle in the centre of the table flickers. “I think you forget I’m a student. The other week a friend offered to cook me dinner and all she had was rice and ketchup. I’m used to it.”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “A friend?”

“Yes, a _friend,_ ” Bill emphasises the noun forcefully, “No-one special. I don’t… I don’t want _to...”_

“It’s fine, you don’t have to explain to me.”

From behind them, the door opens and Bill almost expects a fanfare, a flurry of trumpets. But this time—she needs no introduction. Missy enters in a full length burgundy ballgown, matching the colour of the seat covers. The silk shines in the candlelight. The sleeves are long but she’s clearly modernised the look, the back of the dress exposing her skin. Her hair is mostly knotted up in its usual style, but a few rogue curls trickle down her neck, her torso. Bill has never looked at her with anything other than mild curiosity, maybe disdain, but bloody _hell._ She’s not _blind._

And the Doctor—for want of a better comparison, it’s like Prince Charming catching eyes with Cinderella on the night of the ball, before the clock strikes midnight. Admittedly, Missy is a far cry from the meek and dainty fairytale princess and the Doctor no prince, but the simile still stands. She’s unable to think of anything else.

“Oh, I must look beautiful,” Missy twirls her skirts, “You two can’t keep your jaws closed.”

Almost simultaneously, the Doctor and Bill subconsciously lock their gaping mouths shut. Bill flushes, takes another sip of champagne. Hopes this little incident will get forgotten. Missy settles elegantly in the chair next to the Doctor, gestures for him to pour her a glass of champagne. He rolls his eyes but pours one anyway.

“Anyway,” Missy gulps back a couple of mouthfuls, “I do hope that the Doctor has been keeping you entertained, uh…” She glances over at the Doctor, over-exaggeratedly widens her eyes, tugging at her earlobe. The Doctor shakes his head and mouths her name. “Bill! Yes, Bill. I remember.”

Bill raises an expertly plucked eyebrow, but otherwise makes no comment. She knows she’s teasing her. “Why are you doing this?”

“So loaded a question so early on in the evening!” Missy nudges Bill’s glass with the rim of her own. “Drink some more, then maybe I’ll tell you. Now, where’s baldy with the first course? I’m positively malnourished!”

-x-

**_\--course five: removes_ **

The soup smells good and doesn’t look particularly suspect, but Bill’s still wary to let anything prepared by Missy go anywhere near her insides. From beside her, Nardole wolfs down the food like a stray dog that hasn’t eaten in weeks, whilst the Doctor and Missy go for a much gentler approach. She swirls her spoon round her bowl, picking it up, dropping it again.

“Well, eat up,” Missy gestures at Bill with her own spoon, “You mustn’t have had a proper meal in weeks, you’re so scrawny. What’s that disease you humans get? Rickets? Yes, it’s highly likely you have that. You look rickety to me.”

Bill narrows her eyes. “I don’t have rickets.”

Nardole drops his empty bowl down on the table with an unceremonious ceramic _plonk._ “That was delicious. Is there any more?”

“See, baldy likes it,” Missy brings her spoon to her lips, “Why aren’t you eating?”

The Doctor tries to drag the attention away from Bill. “Give her chance, Missy, it’s still hot—“

“You think I’ve poisoned it, don’t you? You think I’d do that?” When Bill neglects to reply, Missy laughs manically, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, honey, do you think if I wanted you dead I’d go through this much effort? Slave away in the _fucking—“_

“Missy, calm down,” the Doctor reaches out to touch her elbow, but Missy pulls it away quickly. “It’s just hot, isn’t it, Bill?”

“What’s the fucking point?” Missy slams her fist down on the table. The cutlery clinks, and Nardole’s glass dances for a second before falling onto the floor, smashing into confetti. “What’s the fucking point of trying to—I’m never going to be _good,_ I’m never going to be you, but I’ve been trying so _fucking…”_

Bill’s blood runs to ice. Of all the reactions, she never expected this. She never expected her to feel _hurt_ by her apprehension. She doesn’t want to feel bad, but that’s her. She’s always wanted to make people feel happy. Even if that person didn’t necessarily deserve happiness. She’s about to apologise, but Missy pushes back her chair noisily, storms off into the kitchen. The Doctor follows quickly after her. Bill’s left staring in their wake, a hole opening up in her stomach.

“She’ll be alright in a minute,” Nardole says confidently. He points to the still full bowl of soup set out in front of her. “Are you going to eat that?”

Bill looks down. She doesn’t feel that hungry anymore, so slides the bowl to Nardole who accepts it graciously. It’s not just food, just dinner, not a special occasion. It’s more important than that. She knocks back the rest of her champagne and reaches out for more. Wonders what Heather would say, if she were here. She’d probably say the right thing. In her mind, the Heather that lives there—well, she always says the right thing. Potential. Huh. It’s always more painful than history.

-x-

**_\--course six: punch or sorbet (interlude two)_ **

He can feel the rage radiating off her like heat, the way she frantically rushes between the sink and the sideboard, dropping plates into soapy water. One slips from her grasp and drops to the floor, smashing loudly. She swears—a Gallifreyan curse word which is roughly equivalent to _fuck_ —and he notices a splash of crimson on the stone.

“Missy, Missy, _hey…”_ He reaches out and tries to still her, but she’s having none of it, trying to shake free of his grasp. “Missy, stop. You’ve hurt yourself. Stop.”

“The funny thing is,” she starts, gesturing madly, “I don’t _care_ what your little pet thinks of me. I’ve never cared, they’re idiotic, they’re dispensable, they’re human. I care what _you_ think, and you like her, and that makes me want her to like me, which is fucking stupid—“

Pet. Things have got worse, then. He reaches out for her hand. Blood trickles through the cracks in her palm like channels in a river, the gash slightly worse than he anticipated. “It’s not stupid. I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“It is, it is, it is, because I’ve never cared before, not once, why do I care now?” She hisses, springs back, when he tries to dab at the cut with a clean, damp cloth. “It’s fine, leave it. _Leave it._ ”

“No, it’s not fine. It needs cleaning, at the very least.” He winds the cloth round her hand until red bleaches through the material, blurs with the water. “Keep that on it. I’m sure there’s a first-aid kit around here somewhere.”

Missy laughs bitterly. “You did this to me. You made me care. All those years in the vault and this is what you’ve turned me into. Someone who _cares._ ”

The Doctor shuffles round in the cupboard for a couple of minutes until he stumbles across a kit he thinks Martha might have given him, a lifetime ago. Missy’s angry breathing and the drip of the tap are the only things that break the silence. He clips it open, finds a sealed bottle of antiseptic and a bandage. He unwraps Missy’s hand and for once, she lets him take care of her, watches as he dries it carefully and applies a thin layer of the cream around the broken skin. “I refuse to believe that that’s such a bad thing.”

“It is when it makes me weak,” she winces and he tuts, pulling her hand closer to him. “I’m weak, I’m compromised. I’ve made her dinner. I don’t make dinner for anyone, I don’t care about anyone, especially not her.”

The Doctor starts wrapping the bandage round her palm. “You have to remember that she knows about the things you’ve done, in the past. She’s wary, still, but she’s open to the idea, she’s seen—Missy, she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She came. Remember that.”

He can feel her pulse relax a little, her eyes soften. They’re ice blue, this time, like glaciers. He brings the bandaged hand to his lips and presses a kiss between her knuckles, keeps it there for a moment as she calms. A tide returning to the shore.

“I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it enough. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.”

Missy scoffs scathingly, rolls her eyes, but there’s no denying the flush across her cheeks. “Please. Don’t make me ill. Don’t be sappy. That kind of talk is exactly why after this I’ll go and blow up a planet, or go enslave Trivoli again, or something.”

“After this?” the Doctor quirks an eyebrow, “So you’re staying?”

Missy hums. Brings her arms to her sides. “Only for you. And if you make the human try some of that vodka you picked up in Russia a few weeks ago. The ninety percent stuff.”

“Bill, her name is Bill.”

“Fine, whatever, _Bill,_ ” Missy clicks her tongue and grins, “Get baldy back in here. He can deal out the fish.”

Well, it seems they’ve reached a resolution, for now.

-x-

**_\--course seven: roast_ **

A considerable amount of time passes before Missy and the Doctor return and Missy looks calmer, lulled, like a wasteland after a hurricane. Bill notices the bandage round her hand but decides not to question it. It’s best not to dwell. It’s best not to dwell.

“So…” Bill trails off, champagne on the brain. Her limbs are fizzing and fireworks are exploding in her gut. “What’s the next course?”

The Doctor glances over at Missy expectantly. Missy knocks back half a glass of champagne and wipes her top lip, lipstick smudging slightly onto her chin. “Fish. Poached salmon. It’s a bit bland, but the Doctor insisted I stuck to human delicacies.”

The Doctor points to his own chin and Missy understands, picks up her napkin and blots her face. “What are you talking about? You love salmon. It’s all you ate in Germany.”

“Only because it was the most tolerable thing on the menu,” Bill wonders which Germany, when Germany, why Germany. Two thousand years of friendship, she supposes, that’s quite a big timeline to think about. “The cheese was okay, but the sausages were awful.”

“The sausages were awful,” the Doctor agrees, “Odd, considering its what the Germans are famous for.”

“Depends on the German,” Missy winks, and Bill considers leaving the table to vomit. This is almost as bad as the whole boob thing, which she desperately tries to stop thinking about. Thinking makes her want to look. Looking equals permanent mental scarring.

“You’re horrific. Genuinely horrific.”

“It’s why you like me,” Missy grins. Her fingernails are painted midnight blue, matching with the stacks of silver rings she has on every other finger. Bill thinks this conversation sounds an awful lot like _flirting,_ and has the nasty feeling that maybe this whole _come for dinner_ thing is a ruse to reveal some rather disconcerting information. She pushes the thought back quickly and drinks some more champagne. No, she’s not going there, not tonight. Thankfully, Nardole re-enters, managing to balance all four plates up his arm—perhaps they’re magnetic. The salmon is bright pink, like flamingo feathers, and is remarkably soft when Bill prods it with one of the many forks.

She can feel the Doctor and Missy staring at her, their eyes burning into her hair. Gently, she cuts a little off, drops it in her mouth. It feels like silk on her tongue. “This,” Bill gestures towards the rest of the plate with her fork, “This is really good.”

And like that, the heavy atmosphere in the room parts, Nardole visibly relaxing from beside her. The Doctor smiles, and Missy pretends to not look pleased. “Caught the fish myself, you know.”

The Doctor frowns. “No you didn’t.”

Missy sighs, shaking her head. “Well, I could have caught it myself. It’s not difficult.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor says, chewing his food. He gulps the rest down with a sip of champagne. “It is good, by the way. Bill’s right.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her plate, instead daintily cutting her fish into tiny strips. “I don’t know why that surprises you. You _know_ I won first prize in the three-hundredth series of the _Great Outer-Space Bake Off._ ”

“That’s only because you cheated. You sabotaged Howard-Bot’s custard in the final round.”

“ _Yes,”_ Missy insists forcefully, using her fork for emphasis, “But I still managed to get to the final round sabotage-free. Other than when I turned off the Tin Princess’ hydro-oven in round two. She was bribing the Corporation, you know. It was my moral duty to ensure that behaviour didn’t go unpunished.”

“Wait,” Bill leans forward, eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m quite the celebrity on New Earth,” Missy sighs nostalgically, “And for once, not because of a mass-murder charge.”

Bill watches as the Doctor laughs and the two of them share a look, the kind of look Bill’s only seen in terrible films—a look of longing, of a shared history, except more raw, more real. Without the artifice of transcripts and camera angles and shitty actresses. Nardole spoils the moment by dropping his plate noisily, having licked the china clean. His eyebrows quirk up and Missy snorts derisively. “What’s next, then? I’m starving!”

-x-

**_\--course eight: salad_ **

After the blip early on, and the assurance Missy wasn’t going to slip cyanide into the gravy, the rest of the dinner passes quite smoothly. Well, even. Enjoyable. The roast lamb is beyond anything Bill’s ever tasted, but she supposes, it’s not that big a feat. Moira was never a great cook and Bill’s competent, but that’s only because she literally has to do it for a living. Those spuds don’t peel themselves.

For dessert, Nardole brings out chocolate mousse in four ornate parfait glasses, the glass engraved in blooming roses and petunias. When Bill spoons it into her mouth without hesitation, she notices that it’s got quite a fiery kick to it.

“What’s in this?” Bill asks, with her mouth still full. The chocolate is creamy and unbelievably decadent, and probably about a billion calories.

“Oh, just a handful of arsenic,” Missy says nonchalantly. Across the table, both the Doctor and Nardole drop their spoons noisily, a metallic clang against the wood. Panic drains all colour from Bill’s face, looking desperately at the Doctor. Missy slaps her chest and laughs heartily. “Oh, god, the looks on your faces! It’s brandy. Arsenic doesn’t taste like that at all, you imbeciles. It’s just brandy.”

The Doctor laughs first. It’s a gruff, croaky sort of laugh that emerges deep from within his chest, like it’s been hanging round there a while, waiting to be set free. Then Nardole starts. His is surprisingly high-pitched and sort of mechanical. Before Bill realises, they’re all at it, laughing so hard their limbs ache and hot, fast tears roll down her cheeks, smudging her makeup.

For a moment, she feels warm. She feels complete. She feels something that’s been absent her whole life, a gaping hole with nothing but ash and sawdust and concrete to fill it.

She feels… well, she feels _home._

-x-

**_\--course nine: cold dish_ **

The Doctor slumps off to find his guitar so Bill takes the liberty of bringing some of the empty plates back through to the kitchen. She empties the now tepid washing up bowl, filling it with clean water. The cleaning liquid smells like lavender and bubbles drift up into the ceiling. One bursts on her nose. She drops a few of the plates into the water and starts scrubbing some of the gravy off with a scouring pad, the rush of the tap swallowing any background noise.

She gets a shock when an arm reaches out and switches it off. “You don’t have to do that.”

It’s Missy. She looks alarmingly earnest; a look Bill’s never seen on her before. “Honestly, I don’t mind. Might as well make myself useful.”

Missy shrugs, grabbing a tea-towel hanging loose on a nearby radiator. “Suit yourself.”

They stand there in silence for what could be seconds or minutes, Bill quietly cleaning each piece of crockery in turn and placing it upside down on the draining board, Missy wordlessly drying them and propping them back in the big, glass-faced ceramics cabinet. Bill can’t think of the right words, or how to phrase them. Her lips keep tripping over themselves.

“I’m…” Bill says, on an intake of breath. The ceramics cabinet clinks loudly as Missy tries to squash in a casserole dish. “I never said—well, I’m— _sorry._ I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Missy pauses. Looks down at her shoes. “I can’t blame you. I was a terrible person. Still am. Mostly.”

“No, no, I was wrong. You spent all that time in the vault, you’re good…”

Missy sighs with a hint of exhaustion, kneading her forehead with her fist. Bill frowns. “Why is this such a difficult concept for humans to comprehend? I’m not _good._ I never will be good. It’s not—it doesn’t work like that. You’re obsessed, you’re all obsessed, by putting unintelligible abstracts into tiny little boxes. Labelling them. It’s like your whole ridiculous gender debate. You strive for neatness and compactness and it bothers me. Why are you so eager to be confined?”

Bill laughs out of disbelief. As if she doesn’t know how harmful being _confined_ and _labelled_ is. “Fine. Go on. Educate me.”

Missy grabs another plate. “Good and bad are not as black and white as you like— _want_ —to believe. They’re interchangeable. The boundaries merge and it’s all…” She smirks to herself, like she’s in on a joke Bill doesn’t know. “ _Bumpy-wumpy._ Being bad, or what you perceive as bad, is what I’ve always been. It’s debatable whether that was more me or what Gallifrey _made_ me, but I’m not going to go into that, especially with someone who will _never_ understand what being a child on Gallifrey is like. As much as you try, you can’t remove your heart, without killing who you are. And what would be the point if you’re not fully _you_ anymore.”

The water in the bowl is going lukewarm now, and Bill’s fingers are all pruney.

“I’m never going to be _good,_ like the Doctor will never be fully _bad._ It’s just a fundamental fact. It’s too late to change what is effectively in our DNA. But the vault—the vault was an opportunity to balance my equilibrium, both our equilibriums. The way I was heading wasn’t sustainable. I was going to burn myself out. I can see that now.” She blinks hard, staring at the wall. “Earlier, you asked why I was doing this. This whole ridiculous display of domesticity and kindness and, and, and tranquillity. Well—that’s why. I’m balancing myself out.”

It’s more a confession than Bill expected. Probably more than Missy was expecting, too. The words just keep tumbling out her mouth like uncorked champagne, impossible to pour back into the bottle. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she thinks it’s a weakness, this emotional vulnerability. It’s not, though. This is more proof she’s _changed_ to Bill than all the soup and the lamb and the brandy-infused chocolate mousse. She jolts out of her stupor quickly, going back to drying the dishes, placing the row of parfait glasses in a cabinet that hangs over the wall.

“Missy,” Bill says, tentatively, pouring the cold water out the bowl and down the plughole. “Can I ask you something?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to. Ah, humans. Absolutely no boundaries.”

Bill ignores her, turning her back on the sink, resting her spine against the side. She watches as Missy closes the cabinet door carefully. “When did you realise you needed to, uh, change? Reform, I guess?”

Missy exhales heavily, staring at the shelves rather than at Bill, like she’d prefer not to look her in the eye. “The Doctor and me—we don’t have many constants in this world, not for a very long time. But we have always had each other. The thought of someday killing him was what kept me going for a while, and he’d be lying if he’d never thought the same about me. But…” She glances down at her knuckles, fiddles with one of her rings. “I was going to lose him. Irreversibly, this time. And the thought of losing him took precedence over the thought of killing him.”

Bill doesn’t know what to say. She knows how loss feels—her whole life has been one big epic sad story, from the mum she never had and the girlfriend she couldn’t have, but her loss feels like nothing compared to the ancient sadness that exudes from Missy’s tone. She’d never fully comprehended the Doctor and Missy’s relationship properly until now; mainly because she’s never fully understood just how _hard_ it must have been, to try and change the person you have been for thousands of years. Missy has always been just the evil, devil incarnate figure to her. Yes, the things she’s done in the past can never be undone; maybe there will still be more chaos to come. Definitely. But she’s trying, and she has changed, and maybe that’s good enough for now.

“Don’t you _dare_ mention any of this to him,” Missy comments as an afterthought, “He’ll think I’ve gone soft. And I’m not making a habit of this. Just because I’ve… _told_ you things, doesn’t mean I like you. I can tolerate you, like one can just about tolerate a chipped mug or a terrible romcom. But I’m not going to start getting gooey-eyed over apes like he does. It’s nauseating.”

Bill smiles. Maybe somethings will never change. “Sure. Whatever you like.”

Missy narrows her eyes, not quite believing her but accepting it anyway. She hangs the tea-towel back on the radiator and flattens out the creases. Distantly, Bill can hear the chords of a song she hasn’t heard before—a beautiful song, an eerie song, that sends shivers rushing through her—but Missy freezes, like she recognises it.

Perhaps, Bill wonders, it’s her song.

-x-

**_\--course ten: sweets_ **

The air is cool and the sky above is hazy with artificial light, pinpricks of white breaking out amongst the blue. Engines blare from the main road running adjacent and there’s faint giggling, shouting, as students head from the halls and drunkenly into town. It’s rolling on for eleven pm. Bill rests her empty glass on the step of the TARDIS and watches as her shoes sink into the soil, her toes wet with dew. She feels him before she sees him; maybe two hearts beat twice as loud.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, sitting beside her with a groan. Bill nudges his boot with her toe. “It does—even if it doesn’t feel like it. It means a lot. To the both of us.”

“I actually quite enjoyed myself in the end,” Bill muses, “Missy sure knows how to host a party.”

“She’s always been like that. When we first…” he trails off and stares at the moon, peaking out amongst the clouds. “She’s not had an opportunity to do it for a while. Would you like me to walk you home?”

Usually she’d decline and order a cab, or just go on her own, it’s not that far away. But it’s a nice night, not too cold for the time of year, so she might as well take advantage of his company. He stands first and offers a hand to help her up. The grass snakes up Bill’s legs but it’s refreshing, a reminder of just how alive she really is.

“Feel free to tell me to piss off,” she says when they reach the road, “But was there an ulterior motive to this?”

The Doctor’s expressive brows furrow, dodging a group of students clinging onto each other and spilling red bull on the pavement. “What do you mean?”

“I know Missy’s reason. I think. I just don’t know yours.”

He shrugs. “There isn’t one. I just went along with what Missy wanted.”

“I just—I find that hard to believe.” They pause at a pedestrian crossing. The Doctor presses the button, taps his foot as he waits for the light to change. Bill gathers her vowels and consonants in the hope of making a somewhat coherent train of thought vocal. “Look, when I was younger, Moira, she had quite a few boyfriends. There was Cliff from the rugby club and Martin the gym assistant and Kevin the geography teacher—they were all ginormous dickheads, probably why I don’t like men. But every time she found a new one she’d bring them round the house, make them dinner, and introduce them to me.”

The crossing flashes green. “Look, Bill; is this going anywhere?”

“Yes. Yes!” Bill walks quickly to keep up with him, “What I mean is… Moira hasn’t been the ideal mother figure, not at all, but she knew how fucked up my childhood had been. She brought these boyfriends round to the house because somehow, for some reason… she was seeking my approval.”

The Doctor slows in his strides. Blinks.

“Is that it, then?” Bill looks up at him, “Is it an, uh, approval thing? I’m not stupid Doctor, or blind. I know I don’t have a hope in hell in understanding Time Lord relationships or how you two work. I don’t even think I _want_ to understand. But I know how much she means to you. I’ve always known, even if I didn’t want to know.”

The Doctor smiles softly. Bill knows it really isn’t as simple as she’s making out, but maybe she’s thought of an analogy that just about fits. “And does she?”

Bill looks confused. “Does she what?”

“Have you approval.”

Oh. _Oh._ Bill grins and bites her lip. They turn the corner into her street, where Bill can see the porch light glowing dimly. The teenage lad that she’s seen on many occasions stare at her arse on the way to uni rushes by on a bicycle. The air smells damp, as if there’s rain on the way. “I don’t… She still scares me, to know what she’s capable of. But I think she’s capable of being better too. And I think that’s probably enough.”

Bill undoes the latch on the little iron gate in front of her garden and closes it behind her.

“For the record, Bill, your opinions do matter to me. They will always matter to me. Doesn’t mean I’ll always listen to them, but I take what you say seriously.” The Doctor gives her a small wave, opening his fist and splaying his fingers. She waves back. “See you on Monday. You’ve still got a paper on parallax theory to hand me.”

And like that, it’s back to reality, sitting at her laptop for hours on end in the hope of writing something remotely clever. “See ya.”

“Goodnight, Bill.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

-x-

**_\--course eleven: dessert (interlude three)_ **

Nardole tells him she’s in the bath when he returns, and he instantly know which bath he means. Missy has a thing for outrageously big rooms with very little furniture— _her_ bathroom is easily the size of a normal person’s flat but the claw-foot tub sits isolated in the middle, the space around dominated by stone tiling. She’s humming some ancient Gallifreyan lullaby they were both taught as children and it chills him, despite the heat, as her soprano echoes around the high-ceilinged room.

_sing the days of love, softly lay me down_

Her clothes are haphazardly laid about like she’s removed them one piece at a time, walking over to the bath. The gown swallows the ground like a bloodstain, one shoe next to it, the other at the side of the tub. His footsteps feel ridiculously loud but if she notices, she doesn’t look up.

“Where did you disappear off to?” she asks, sticking one leg in the air. He still finds it funny, watching her shave her legs. It’s been a while since she was last female.

“Walked Bill home,” he murmurs. Sits on the side of the tub and plops her flannel in the bubbles. “She enjoyed herself, by the way. Miraculously.”

“I enjoyed myself.” She tugs on his arm. “You joining me?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Of course, my love.”

He peels off his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly a few feet away. He can see her watching him as he unlaces his boots, pulls off his trousers. The water is still hot as he sinks in, smelling pleasantly like honeysuckle—or maybe that’s just Missy. She reaches across, pulls herself close to him, rests between his knees. Her hands caress his shoulders, tracing shapes he assumes are nonsensical bits of Gallifreyan.

“I’m not making a habit of this,” she says eventually, “How often do you have to be nice to humans to keep them on your side? Their lifespans are so fleeting, I forget.”

He sighs. Presses a kiss on her bare shoulder. She’s got a mark like a crescent moon there and he can’t remember if it’s a recent thing or a regeneration thing. “It’s not about sides, Missy.”

“I know, I know,” she smiles, “I’m just playing with you. You’re so easy to play with. Always so easy.”

She snakes her arms round his torso, her fingers drumming across his spine, his collar bone. He finds himself wanting to return the gesture and they end up holding onto each other, but it’s soft, not like the world is ending, not now. He remembers gripping her and crying so hard he’s almost sick, tears he could never shed for anyone but his own. She’s finally back. She’s finally where he’s always wanted her, all these fucking years.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I know that,” he says. Her hair is tickling his cheek. He leans back so he can face her, see those cold blue eyes and cut-glass cheekbones. He loves all her regenerations in their own little way, but perhaps he loves this one the most. He presses his forehead against hers and he can feel her smile, effervescent, blinding. “I know that.”

They don’t kiss that often, not properly, because he hates the thought that each one could be their last. But this time he doesn’t mind, not at all, because her lips are damp from steam and she tastes like champagne. This time could be their last time, but it’s a good last time; he’d rather it ended like this than the awful, awful, awful alternative.

“I had a word with Mickey, the other day, about that mural.”

“Mickey?” the Doctor’s frowns, “Who’s Mickey?”

“Mickey. _Michelangelo._ Idiot. Anyway, he says he can pop round and paint you in if you like. He remembers all the necessary measurements, although he does tend to go a bit overboard.”

“Can we not talk about Michelangelo while we’re kissing, please? It’s distracting.”

“Oh. Sorry, dear,” Missy smirks, kisses him again. “You didn’t seem that bothered last time he visited.”

“Shut up. Shut up, right now, or I’m getting out. You’re spoiling it.”

She laughs, and kissing her is much more fun when she’s laughing. They sit in the bath until it goes cold and they have to find somewhere warmer.

-x-

**_\--after dinner_ **

Bill wakes up the following morning to a voicemail notification from the Doctor. Intrigued, she rubs her eyes, unlocks her phone. Scrolls through until she finds the call in question. She’s too tired to be panicked just yet and surely she would have noticed if the world had ended in the meantime.

The speaker is muffled by something but even blurry with sleep, it doesn’t take her long to figure out just what exactly is going on.

“Fucking hell!” she yells, disgusted, manically trying to shut down every single app she has open. Deletes the message. Wipes her call-log. Debates throwing her phone straight out the window or just burning the thing, devoid of all evidence. Instead, she opens the Doctor’s contact, and begins to type out a message.

_Stop. Fucking. Butt-dialling. Me._

 


End file.
